The Red Witch of Chamonix
by GoGirl212
Summary: Here's your Halloween Treat! D'Artagnan must save his friends from the clutches of the Red Witch before the setting of the Hunter's Moon seals their fates forever. An entry in the October Fete des Mousquetaire contest with the theme "Haunted Houses".


_A/N: This story was inspired by my beautiful, 140-pound enormous dog Chester. He is a mix of labrador retriever and a great dane and is the size of a miniature horse. He is my wildebeest, my loyal companion, and my brave defender against garbage trucks and school buses that roam the neighborhood. I think everyone should have a dog like Chester, especially a young Musketeer in need of a friend._

 _The other inspiration for this story is the Opera production of Hansel & Gretel I am currently working on at my theatre. There is nothing like spending dark nights in the company of a scary witch in the middle of the woods to make you wish you had a few musketeers around._

 _An entry for the October Fete des Mousquetaires competition with the theme "Haunted Houses". So much gratitude to Issai for helping me chop this down to fit the contest word count!_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

D'Artagnan pushed aside the branches carefully, forced to move more slowly. The farm road he had been following had narrowed considerably and was all but a deer track at best with overgrown branches and fallen trees presenting a myriad of obstacles. It was hard going along the rough path and D'Artagnan thought again that he might be lost.

The tavern-keeper in Chamonix-Mont-Blanc had warned him that it was deep into the forest and that the road had been long neglected but D'Artagnan had little choice. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had left had left the inn to follow-up on a lead about a missing girl, but what had happened to the three musketeers in the intervening week before D'Artagnan arrived remained a mystery.

D'Artagnan took a long drink from the leather pouch dangling from his belt. It had not been a difficult transition for him to shift from packing his gear on a horse to having them bundled on his back. At Chambéry three weeks ago they had split up to meet various contacts and different towns throughout the region with plans to rendezvous at Chamonix in one week's time. D'Artagnan had arrived as planned to find that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had been there and left in search of a missing girl. After three days they had not returned to their rooms and the tavern keeper had cleared out their belongings. D'Artagnan had backtracked their routes, searching now for over a week with no leads as to where the men had gone.

As if D'Artagnan had not been worried enough, a mysterious message had been left for him last night at the tavern. He pulled the parchment from his pocket and carefully unfolded it, scanning the fine script once again for more information that he already knew he would not find.

 _The danger is grave._

 _At the Hunter's Moon, the beasts will feed on the souls of man._

 _Find the Red Witch_

The delicate hand and floral paper suggested it had been written by a woman. While there was nothing at all to indicate the letter was anything short of the twisted imaginings of a warped mind, D'Artagnan could not dismiss the threat, no matter how vague, that the lives of his three friends were in danger and that he needed to find the Red Witch.

D'Artagnan had generally dismissed the stories of the witch living in the woods. Living in Paris for a year had taught him much, including that the superstitions of the villagers were spurred by ignorance of the medical and physical sciences or fear of a broader world outside the 20-mile radius of their own home. But the letter pointed him to the darkness in the forest and he knew the village story of the Red Witch. She was a figure of evil who used her beautiful appearance to lure children into the woods where she enslaved them for a month, then slaughtered them and drank their blood under the light of a full moon in order to stay young and beautiful. A horrible story designed to keep children obedient and D'Artagnan would have just dismissed it as nonsense had not his friends been missing for over a fortnight. The Hunter's Moon was soon, just two days away on the last night of October.

D'Artagnan had searched all the reasonable and logical places and while the note pointed him in an illogical direction, the forest was indeed the one place he had not searched. Packing his belongings once again, D'Artagnan had done his best to acquire directions to the haunted house of the Red Witch. While he doubted he would truly find a witch at the end of the road, he was determined to follow any path that would lead to the missing musketeers.

Mind lost in worry and self-recrimination, D'Artagnan failed to notice the signs of an attack until the beast was almost upon him. The snarls and growls in the rustling underbrush had D'Artagnan instantly alert, heart pumping with a sudden spike of fear. There was a large animal just ahead and D'Artagnan was woefully aware that his sword was carefully wrapped in oilcloth and twinned with a branch to both hide the weapon and serve as a frame for his makeshift pack. Unarmed, D'Artagnan spotted a stout stick just to his left as the beast broke cover.

It was a wild boar and by the length of its tusks an old one at that. It snarled and growled as its feet kicked up the loose earth of the forest floor and it made a mighty charge toward D'Artagnan. Grateful as ever for reflexes honed by sparing with Athos, D'Artagnan hurled himself toward the stick and out of the immediate path of the boar. Those animals were big, the tusks dangers and the teeth brutal if one suffered a bite, but they were also cumbersome and less agile than a wolf or a dog. It was more like fighting Porthos, where sheer bulk and size were enemy enough. D'Artagnan got ahold of the stick in an awkward shoulder roll, encumbered as he was by the pack on his back, but found his feet beneath him just as the beast was turning from his aborted charge.

It paused a moment and pawed the ground – a sign of threat and dominance. D'Artagnan was in trouble. The stick might hold off the boar for one or two passes but it was enraged and would not be deterred by just the slam of the wood on its snout. If he could gain some distance, D'Artagnan's only hope was to break to the forest and hope he could find a tree to climb before the beast caught up to him. Being gored by a wild boar was one of the most painful ways a man could die.

Suddenly a snarling ball of black fur and fury flew from the cover of the brush and slammed hard into the side of the charging beast. The boar snorted and squealed as it tumbled beneath the other animal, the two creatures a rolling ball of snarls and teeth. D'Artagnan got himself to his feet and shifted closer to his pack while keeping his eyes pinned on the epic fight before him. His savior turned out to be an enormous black dog and its wide, powerful jaws were now locked over the throat of the boar. The boar snorted and bucked but could not shake the determined dog from its neck.

Reaching his pack, D'Artagnan retrieved his sword and slipped it free from the bundle. He pulled a tie at the top and the oilcloth wrappings fell from the blade like a snake shedding the coils of its skin. Still partially covered by the cloth, enough of the blade was free to allow D'Artagnan to join the fray. As the dog forced the boar again onto its side D'Artagnan leaped forward and plunged his weapon into the exposed flesh of its underbelly. The boar writhed beneath both dog and sword but neither man nor beast gave quarter to flailing animal. They held fast until the struggles of the boar finally slowed and then stopped, limbs falling limp as it huffed out the last of its breath. Exhausted, D'Artagnan slipped his blade from the animal's gut and staggered back to lean against a tree, bent forward with hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

The dog disentangled himself from the dead boar and moved to cautiously sniff at it, ensuring to its satisfaction that the beast was indeed no more. D'Artagnan watched the dog warily as it turned its bloody jaws to face him, the only other living creature in the vicinity. D'Artagnan clenched his sword in a shaky grip, hoping that his savior was not about to become his enemy. He worried a moment when the great beast lowered its head, but instead of a growl, the dog began to slowly wag his tail, looking up at D'Artagnan with what would have been a sheepish grin if the canine were a human. D'Artagnan felt his fears fall away immediately and he smiled at the beautiful big dog who had just saved his life.

"Come here, boy," D'Artagnan encouraged, holding out his hand. The dog wagged his tail furiously, his hindquarters wiggling with joy. He let out an inquisitive whine and D'Artagnan encouraged him again, "Here boy, come here!" he called, patting his thigh. The dog needed no further coaxing and trotted up to D'Artagnan, immediately sniffing at his legs and butting him with his head.

"Good boy, there's a good dog," D'Artagnan smiled as he ran his hands over the dog's head and back. The pup leaned into him, pressing against D'Artagnan's legs and looking up with soft brown eyes that pleaded for even more attention.

"You like that, huh," D'Artagnan said, slipping his hands over the dog's haunches looking for injury. The dog did seem to like that too and gave out a high pitched yelp that D'Artagnan knew was a canine's way of signaling pleasure or joy. He remembered the dogs on the farm yelping like that when he would return from a day in the fields, always eager to be reunited with him as if he had been away for ages.

"Where did you come from, hmm?" D'Artagnan asked out loud as he stroked the animal's giant head. The dog was big, really big. He looked to be one of the mountain dogs from the Pyrenees that farmers in Lupiac sometimes used to manage their flocks of sheep and goats. It was the biggest of its breed D'Artagnan had ever seen and he marveled at the broad paws and meaty haunches this dog possessed. He was thick and muscular and apparently big enough to take down a boar with strong jaws that had never once faltered. Pyrenean mountain dogs were usually white or white with black spots but this one was black as midnight from nose to tail.

"I'm lucky you came along, aren't I?" D'Artagnan said as he patted the dog's great head. D'Artagnan found himself taking strange comfort in talking to the dog. He laughed at himself a little as he made his way to his pack and sat wearily beside it. Talking to a dog was not the most foolish of things he had ever done, but it certainly wasn't something he'd be sharing with the others when he found them.

As he re-wrapped his sword and prepared to leave, D'Artagnan's thoughts strayed to his missing friends. He was not one to let despair set in, but the situation was becoming hopeless. After weeks of searching the trail was cold and here he was lost in the middle of the darkening forest with a dog his only company. He was a fool. Where had head over heart gone when he decided to search for fairy tale witch alone in a deep wood.

A small whine came from beside him and a damp nose tickled at the back of his neck. "Stop, stop," D'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh as the dog nuzzled at him, "Alright, you are right. No sense worrying about it." he said, leaning his head against the great beast. "Where do you belong? You must have come from somewhere, right?" D'Artagnan felt his optimism rise. He hoped the dog wasn't as lost as he was. He was clearly comfortable with humans so maybe an owner was nearby and the dog could lead him home. Home to a place with a barn or a spare room where he might be able to spend the night. In the morning, he would decide what to do next.

 **Chapter 2**

After another rough stretch through deep overgrowth, the woods unexpectedly gave way to a large clearing. A well-kept thatched cottage, freshly whitewashed, stood amidst a garden of gangly wildflowers. Green and gold ivy crept up its walls and soft smoke puffed from the chimney promising a warm and cheery fire inside. The front yard was neatly tended with a vegetable garden bearing an abundant crop of fall squashes and pumpkins while chickens roamed the yard near the well. A few goats prowled by the green grass surrounding the garden while a docile milk cow stood in the half-open doorway of a small red barn to the left of the house. D'Artagnan smiled, hoping the owner of the home would be as hospitable and inviting as the cheery homestead seemed to be.

Beside him, the great dog had also paused. He stood slightly in front of D'Artagnan, his body pressed against D'Artagnan's leg. His head was up and ears perked, listening for something, while his body was tense and alert, the dog's tail still and down. The beast signaled warning but there was no threat that D'Artagnan could see. The dog seemed oddly protective of him, but then having been motivated to save him from the boar D'Artagnan suspected the breed's shepherding instincts had taken over and the dog now saw him as one of his charges. D'Artagnan didn't even have to bend over to place a hand on the dog's broad back and give him an affectionate scratch. He appreciated his companion even if it was just a temporary alliance.

As D'Artagnan started toward the cottage, the dog stayed by his side, still alert but also emitting a low whine as they got closer. D'Artagnan looked around again but could see no sign of danger, but clearly, the great beast was showing some fear and anxiety.

The door to the cottage opened and a man emerged. He was tall and wiry, dressed in worn but neat breaches and a homespun green linen shirt. Strong muscles rippled across his back as he bent to pick up a load of firewood from the pile by the door. D'Artagnan was suspected he was quite strong and fit despite the snow white hair crowning his head.

"Hello there!," D'Artagnan called out cheerfully, hoping a warm greeting would immediately indicate that he meant no harm. The old farmer straightened and turned, raising a brow and taking in D'Artagnan from head to toe with a quick glance.

"Rounded up another stray, did ya?" the man's gruff voice was stern and his eyes narrowed. D'Artagnan was surprised at the response until the beast beside him whined and sat. The man was addressing the dog, not him. "What did I say about running off?" The farmer dropped the load of wood and moved toward them. The dog whined, front paws skittering and tapping at the ground as if he was unsure whether he should stay or move to his owner. Instinctually, D'Artagnan put his hand on the dog's great head and he felt the hound lean into him.

"He's a brave dog, he saved my life," D'Artagnan offered with a smile.

"Did he now," the man replied, "Lucky then for you he is a disobedient mule of thing. No matter how much I beat him, he keeps roaming the woods. It's gonna take something severe for you to finally learn, isn't it?" the farmer said darkly to the dog as he stopped before them. D'Artagnan felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise as the dog finally got past his indecision and stretched his paws to lay at the farmer's feet, head low but eyes looking up. The beast knew he was in trouble as he continued his soft whine. D'Artagnan was confused by the interaction and was about to speak again when the happy bark of another dog pulled their attention to the barn.

The cow had shifted toward the grass and now a brown and cream spotted Brittany hunting dog stood just outside the barn, yelping happily and wagging his tail. D'Artagnan knew the breed from his time at court, the dogs a favorite of Louis for their fine skill in the field. It barked again and shifted a little closer, but D'Artagnan could see there was a collar and chain around the beast's neck and he could not get any closer to them. Beside him the great black pyr started to wag his tail and pushed himself up to a sitting position, clearly wanting to return his brother's greeting.

The farmer let out a deep laugh and a great smile lit up his face.

"Oh, on with you then," he said, cocking his head toward the hound, "Go get 'em!" the farmer laughed. No further encouragement was needed and D'Artagnan watched the big black pyr bound off to nuzzle and sniff at his companion. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile watching the two dogs reunite as if they had been separated for a long time. He felt a lump rise in his throat as he thought of his own missing companions.

"Sorry son," the farmer said, a twinkle in his eye, "didn't mean to startle ya, but with those dogs, you have to have a firm hand. He knows he's not to run off."

"I understand," D'Artagnan said, returning his gaze to the old man, "Grew up with dogs on my farm in Lupiac."

"Ah, a Gascony man," the farmer said with a knowing nod, "I can hear the accent. What brings you to the woods then?" he asked affably.

"Looking for some missing men," D'Artagnan said, "Three friends of mine. Someone in the village said there was a farmstead out here, got lost. Your dog saved me from a boar. I followed him here."

"A boar huh? Maybe that's what the other one tangled with. Lucky he didn't lose that leg," the farmer said, nodding over toward the animals who had settled down in the grass by the barn. D'Artagnan noticed a dirty linen bandage wrapped around the front leg of the Brittany. "I thought it was a wolf. That dumb dog is always taking up with something. Finally had to chain him up to keep him out of trouble. Big black one is next if he keeps this up."

"Wolves? I'm glad then I found you before night. Hoping I could stay in the barn. Be on my way in the morning." D'Artagnan looked up beseechingly at the older man, hoping his youthful appearance would be as charming to him as it was to Constance.

"Barn eh? We can do better than that," the man smiled and put an affable hand to D'Artagnan's shoulder, "Got a spare room, right near the chimney. Warm and cozy and you are just in time for dinner." D'Artagnan smiled gratefully as the farmer extended a hand, "I'm Etienne Robard. This is my farm. You are welcome, friend."

"Charles D'Artagnan," D'Artagnan replied giving the farmer's hand a firm grasp, "I appreciate your hospitality."

"Perrette!" Etienne called over his shoulder, "Come on out here, we have a guest for dinner!" The cottage door opened and an incredibly beautiful young woman emerged into the sunshine. Long dark hair cascading in waves down her shoulders framing a heart-shaped face. She smoothed delicate hands over the front of her apron and gave a smile and a wave.

"My daughter. Beautiful, isn't she?" Etienne said, drawing D'Artagnan's attention away from the gorgeous woman

"Erhm...yes," D'Artagnan said, clearing his throat. "She is just that. Beautiful."

"Don't be getting ideas now," Etienne said with a chuckle, "Last fellow who did ended up down my well," D'Artagnan's eyes widened in surprise and Etienne gave him a friendly pat on the back, "Don't worry son, I fished him out."

* * *

D'Artagnan found himself slipping comfortably into the simple home life of the Etienne and his daughter. He drew the water from the well, stoked the fire, sliced the bread for supper and ladled out the stew from the iron pot. Perrette never spoke but Etienne kept up a friendly conversation about his farmstead, the gardens, and the livestock. He had a small herd of goats, nearly a dozen sheep, and four cows along with chickens, the two dogs and apparently a very affectionate cat that spent most of dinner twining itself around D'Artagnan's ankles.

"Sorry about him," Etienne said, "Can't keep him away from people."

"It's no bother," D'Artagnan said, slipping a bit of lamb from his second helping of stew and letting the cat nibble it from his fingertips beneath the table, "I like animals."

"Don't encourage him, he's a nuisance," Etienne said, "About at the end of his nine lives I suspect. Hear that wheeze? Had to fish him out of the river a few days ago. Thought he was dead for sure but he came back. Singed his whiskers too near the fire before that. Dragged out of a bramble patch last week. Not sure that cat is worth the trouble but Perrette likes him so we keep him. For now," Etienne gave his daughter a dark look and Perrette returned a thin smile that didn't mask the sad plea in her eyes.

"Perrette doesn't speak," Etienne explained to D'Artagnan.

"I see. I'm sorry," D'Artagnan said earnestly.

"Don't be," Etienne replied, "Keeps her out of trouble when strangers come by. Doesn't it, girl?" Perrette demurely nodded her agreement.

"Strangers come by often?" D'Artagnan asked. "It was not easy to get here. I imagine you are rather isolated."

"Not isolated enough, it seems" Etienne glowered.

Etienne had implied earlier he had run off a man recently. He could certainly imagine Aramis being smitten with this beautiful woman but didn't really think he would be so bold as to steal kisses from the farmer's daughter under his very roof. Still, it was sometimes easy to misconstrue Aramis's natural charm for something else.

"Now tell me again about these friends you are looking for," Etienne offered as he poured D'Artagnan more wine.

Before he could answer the overly friendly cat choose just that moment to scramble up D'Artagnan's leg and climb into his lap. The Gascon gave a laugh and rubbed the purring cat behind the ears but Etienne glowered and picked up the animal by the scruff of the neck and hurled him across the room.

"Damn thing!" Etienne yelled as the cat skittered on the floor. D'Artagnan was shocked but the cat had landed on its feet and seemed fine as at slinked out the half-open front door., "Perrette I swear I'm done with that animal if you can't teach it better manners." She nodded her understanding then pushed herself up from the table, to start clearing the dishes.

"You were saying," Etienne said, passing D'Artagnan another piece of Perrette's apple tart, "about your friends?"

"Yes well," D'Artagnan started, pausing to take a bite and waiting until Perrette had left the room, "I'll be honest, I'm a King's musketeer and the men I'm looking for are from my regiment. They've been missing for over a fortnight." D'Artagnan said, "I did not want to lie to you, but our mission was secret and I have to be cautious in whom I approach."

"Musketeers heh?" Etienne considered that a moment, "Would have noticed if some of them came here," he said with a smile.

"They would not have been in uniform. They would have been dressed as farmers or laborers as I am," D'Artagnan explained. "I believe they came into these woods looking for someone but there is no sign they ever returned."

"There is only one reason people get lost in these parts," Etienne said quietly, his voice low. The crackle of the fire suddenly seemed loud as the old farmer drew closer to D'Artagnan, "The Red Witch." he whispered, candlelight flickering in his eyes, "Some say she eats the girls she steals from the village, and some that she turns them to slaves, but any who get near her are driven off by the evil spirits she commands. If your friends ran afoul of her I'm afraid for their very souls. She is a scourge on lands, withering my crops, killing my goats and drinking their blood by the light of the full moon. If she has your friends, you have little time before the next moon rises."

D'Artagnan felt the gooseflesh rise on his arms even as his mind told him to dismiss the farmer's wild accusations. But he knew well enough having been raised in the country himself that to dispute the man's claims that there was a witch in the woods would come to nothing. Yet there had to be some kernel of truth about dark practices in the heart of these woods and what the man was saying tied eerily to the cryptic message he had received at the inn warning him of danger at the rise of the Hunter's Moon.

"How do I find her?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Tomorrow I'll show you the path. It is not far from here," Etienne put a hand on D'Artagnan's arm, "I pray she does not have your friends but regardless, you must show no mercy. I've seen the bones of men lined up in the ground to make her garden fence. Do not let her fool you. She is evil and it is far time someone put an end to her."

Etienne paused as Perrette returned from the kitchen, a shallow pan and the milk jug in her hand. She gave her father an inquisitive look and he replied with a nod, following her with his gaze until she slipped out the front door."

"She spoils that cat," Etienne muttered, "I indulge her too much. It is because of the Red Witch she lost her voice," Etienne said darkly, "Perrette would not listen and strayed too close. Do not underestimate the danger."

* * *

Later that night, despite the comfort of a full belly and the warmth of the soft bed he slept in, D'Artagnan dreamed of death.

He was pulled from sleep by a mournful cry. He sat up abruptly, the blanket falling away and his heart thumping in his chest. The wind made the trees hush and sigh and caressed his flesh with an icy breath. He could hear the keening cries of men in agony, but as the dream fell from his mind he thought rather it was the dogs howling in the barn where Etienne had locked them up to keep them from straying, or the screech of the cat fending off something in the night.

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. He laid back in bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulder and rolling onto his side. He was weary and worried and the sounds of the night had invaded his dreams but he was no boy to cower in the darkness. He was a musketeer and tomorrow he would face whatever witchery he must to bring his friends safely home.

 **Chapter 3**

In the morning, D'Artagnan was met with a hearty breakfast of sausage and fresh eggs from the chickens. It turned out that Etienne had a few pigs as well and the sausage came from his own stock. The meal was delicious and while Etienne kept the conversation lively, Perrette made sure his plate was never empty.

After breakfast, Perrette heated water so D'Artagnan could wash up before leaving the farmstead. There was something satisfying in openly buckling his sword belt over his breeches and fastening a main gauche to his back, even if he did miss the protection of his leathers. While the role of farmhand had returned naturally, he no longer truly felt himself without a blade strapped at his side.

A strange keening wail came up from the yard and D'Artagnan found himself racing down the stairs and out of the house before he could even identify what it was. He found Perrette sobbing as she stood before a wooden cage used for transporting small livestock like goats and lambs to market. Not seeing any immediate danger, D'Artagnan kept his blade sheathed as he approached. Inside the cage her cat lay limply on its side, panting. It's eyes were glassy and one of its hind legs looked askew.

"Damn thing fell through the roof of the barn and into the wood bin last night," Etienne said, emerging from the structure. "I just patched the hole. I think that cat just spent its last life, but Perrette here won't let me put it out of its misery." Etienne glowered at his daughter but she just cried and squeezed a hand through the bars of the cage to stroke the cat's head. It mewled softly and D'Artagnan felt bad for the animal. Unlike a dog, it was hard to cage a cat for long and unless the broken leg was treated Etienne was probably right that the best thing would be to end the animal's suffering.

"Enough of this Perrette," Etienne growled, "Get in the house and get the man his pack. Go!" Perrette stood and wiped the tears from her eyes, then marched into the house to do as she was told. Etienne softened as he watched her leave. "Her heart is too gentle by far. Sometimes I don't know what to do with her, but she keeps me well and I sometimes I am too soft on her."

"We can't just leave the animal to suffer," D'Artagnan said sadly, "It's cruel."

"Don't worry lad," Etienne replied with a sigh, "She will calm down by the next morning and by tomorrow night it will all be over." Perrette returned with D'Artagnan's pack, a bundle of food tied to the side.

"You've got some miles to cover," Etienne said, "But you'll want to wait to approach til dark. Don't let her see you," he cautioned, "Just strike quickly. I hope you find your friends. But either way, come back when it's done and Perrette will care for you so well you may never feel like leaving again. I'm glad that my fool dog brought you to our doorstep."

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said smiling at his hosts. It had been a much-needed respite to spend the night in the warm and welcoming home. These were good people and he hoped he could indeed return, this time with his friends at his side.

* * *

The big black pyr had followed D'Artagnan on his journey through the woods. He was surprised how much the dog had taken to him, but then again it was in the nature of a herding dog to identify his charges and then look after them with an unfailing loyalty. D'Artagnan was hardly a sheep or goat, but still, it was heartwarming to have a companion, even a canine one, after so many weeks alone on the road.

The dog stuck with him as he made his way through the dense forest, the afternoon light thin and ineffective as it tried to pierce the canopy of yellow-orange leaves that had yet to fall from their branches. When he stopped to rest the dog settled close, lending his warmth against the chill of a late fall day. As D'Artagnan struck deeper into the forest, the interweaving pine branches cast a net above his head and thinned out the light so that it barely pierced the misty gloom. At least the heavy cover made it difficult for anything else to grow and the way became easier.

The soft brown pine needles deadened the sounds of the forest and even the wind seemed like a hushed whisper on the air. Eventually, D'Artagnan came to the stream that Etienne had told him about. As if sensing something was amiss, the great dog stopped in his tracks, hackles rising as D'Artagnan approached a log that had fallen across the banks. It seemed he was to lose his canine companion. The dog whined and yelped, but despite some encouragement from D'Artagnan refused to cross the water. D'Artagnan was impressed. Despite Etienne's comments to the contrary, it seemed the dog well knew its boundaries. D'Artagnan made his way gingerly across the log and left the great dog on the other side, sitting patiently to wait for D'Artagnan's return.

Night was nearing as and the light almost gone as D'Artagnan made his way along the path to the witch's cottage. Soft sounds carried through the mists - cries, and sighs of the forest life sounding like human voices calling out in sorrow or fear. A great rush of wings swooped overhead causing D'Artagnan to instinctively duck, hands thrown above his head. He scanned the trees and could just make out a great owl in the branches of the pine tree above him, its eyes glowing in the last of the dying light.

D'Artagnan pressed on, now encountering sticks driven into the ground, sharpened points threatening to impale anyone moving too quickly. The wind brought to him an unnerving rattling and he passed through a patch of thick mist to be met with the bones of skeleton strung in the branches of a blackthorn tree. They rattled and shook against each other, creating an eerie rhythm that counterpointed the rustle of rags and coins dangling from the branches of the pines. A chorus of low keening started up just as D'Artagnan caught a glimpse of a cottage in the woods. D'Artagnan fought a lifetime of superstition and fear and forced himself to press forward. He was still a God-fearing man, and it was clear that something evil lurked in this foul place.

Two dark shadows passed before him, the sound of unearthly laughter suddenly coming from all around him. D'Artagnan drew his sword, moving into the darkness with the blade poised before him. Something soft flitted across his face and he swatted it away. Then another feathery touch from behind and D'Artagnan whirled around to find nothing. The laughter continued but the low and mournful keening started up again. More shadows appeared, dancing just beyond the reach of his blade. D'Artagnan was surrounded. He swung at unseen opponents, staggering in the yard before the house. A cloud of white dust suddenly rained upon him and his face and hands began to sting and itch. He fought to ignore it but it was overwhelming. His eyes burned and teared and he could barely see. Frantic, D'Artagnan dropped his sword and fell to his knees desperately scrubbing at his eyes and face until he drew blood from his own cheeks. A figure began to emerge before him, a slender form covered in flowing red garments, hands outstretched, reaching for him. D'Artagnan gasped and pushed himself backward, scrabbling away in fear as the Red Witch came for him. As she came closer her veil fell away and he saw piercing blue eyes almost glowing with fury. Then a resounding blow took D'Artagnan in the head and fell to his side, the image of the fierce eyes following him all the way into the darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

He was lost between nightmares and reality. He found himself lying on something soft, his shirt torn from his body, his arms stretched out like he was being prepared for the cross. Soft hands touched him. A sweet face with brown hair came into focus. _Constance?_ But how could she be here? Still, her touch was gentle on his cheek and he leaned into her palm. Then her hand was on his chest, stroking him with a cool soft cloth calming the fire and sting that was shredding his flesh. D'Artagnan relaxed, but then another hand joined hers. And another. Too many hands! His eyes shot open but there was nothing but a blur of colors around him as hands held him.

Long slender fingers grabbed the sides of his face and held his head firmly in place. The blue eyes appeared above him and he tried to struggle, but other hands held his outstretched arms. She touched him and the burn of his skin became a searing fire. D'Artagnan cried out as he felt the skin peeling away from his face. Then something cold filled his eyes and a rough cloth was pressed firmly over them. He writhed beneath the hands but could not escape as his eyes shifted from fire to ice inside his skull and blackness again took him.

The next thing he was aware of was the chirping of birds. He skin no longer hurt and something soft laid lightly upon his chest. His arms were still outstretched and he realized soft linen bound him in place. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids pushed against something. He was blindfolded. He heard the soft sounds of someone moving quietly in the room and tried to call out but all that came from his throat was a croaking rasp. A hand gently lifted the back of his head as a tankard of water was pressed to his lips. D'Artagnan drank greedily until the water was pulled away and his head settled back on what he now realized was a pillow.

"Mistress," a soft female voice called, "He is awake." The rustle of women's skirts swirled near the bed and someone sat close beside him. D'Artagnan suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed and tried to squirm but the linen bands, soft as they were kept his hands and feet firmly in place.

"Hush, don't struggle," a woman's low voice soothed. "I will take the bandages from your eyes if you will be still." Bandages? He had been attacked and now was being cared for? Perhaps he had been rescued, but by who? D'Artagnan gave a small nod and laid still while slender fingers worked loose the linen and cloth from across his eyes.

"Lorraine, draw the curtain," the warm voice said, keeping a hand pressed on the cloth that covered his eyes. D'Artagnan heard the rasp of curtain rings across the rod and then the slender fingers were taking the cloth from over his eyes. He blinked, his eyes teary and gummy. They felt as if there were grit in his eyes and he blinked rapidly.

"Here, wait," the woman said, "Lorraine, the basin please," D'Artagnan caught the low murmur of yes mistress and then the sound of water. A cool cloth gently wiped over his eyes, clearing the grime and stickiness. "Now try again," the woman encouraged.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and saw a swirl of colors but there was far less discomfort. He blinked rapidly few times and an image, a face came into focus. Blond hair, blue eyes, and long delicate features. A gold chain hung from her neck, a blue ribbon was in her hair. D'Artagnan blinked in amazement.

"My Lady" D'Artagnan breathed as he finally recognized her.

"I am just Ninon here," she said with a soft smile, "And you, if I recall, are a King's Musketeers."

"D'Artagnan," he offered still wrestling with reconciling her sudden re-appearance, "Where are we?"

"Oh, D'Artagnan, yes! I do remember you," she answered, then looked over her shoulder "Lorraine, Henriette help me untie him. We should not have any more trouble," she turned her attention to one of the ties at his wrist while the others freed his ankles, "As to where we are, this is my home. Welcome to the house of the Red Witch."

* * *

So explain to me how you came to be here?" D'Artagnan asked, his hand wrapped around a cup of warm whiskey and a blanket draped over his shoulders as he sat across the kitchen table from the former Cometess de Larroque.

"After leaving Paris I traveled South to start a school for girls. Apparently, the villagers are even more wary of an educated woman than the courts of Paris." She gave D'Artagnan a wry smile, "Eventually I came here and created a home in the most inhospitable place I could find. If I was to be a witch, so be it. I play the part and the villagers leave me alone - for the most part anyway. I do have some defenses against those who persist in uncovering the secrets of the Red Witch. Truly D'Artagnan you are the only man who has ventured this close to my home in nigh near a year."

"They say you steal children," D'Artagnan said, a brow raised in question, "And drink their blood in the light of the full moon."

"Steal them? No," Ninon gave a broad smile, "I provide sanctuary for girls running from abusive husbands, brutal fathers. I provide a haven for those poor wives and daughters with no recourse left but to take to the dark woods."

"Did you learn nothing of that in Paris?" D'Artagnan asked, incredulous that she was up to the very thing that had almost had her burned at the stake.

"I learned that no matter where I go, enlightened women will forever be branded as heretics and witches." Ninon raised her chin, defiance in her eyes, "I learned to embrace the label society has placed upon me and become what they abhor. I am safer here in my dark woods than I ever was in any court of men."

"So you practice witchcraft now? Did you cast a spell on me?" D'Artagnan swallowed, worried for the answer. Ninon laughed.

"I practice science, D'Artagnan," Ninon chastised him, "The sounds you heard were hollowed gourds, the bones in the trees are the remnants of our quiet non-human dinner. Feathers and rags, black cloaks and sulfur powder are all I need to make you think there is magic here."

"My skin burned, my eyes . . ." D'Artagnan trailed off, questioning what she had done.

"A combination of herbs, dried and ground to a powder that produces those reactions in the skin." Ninon gave a small pout and reached out to take his hand, "That it got in your eyes I am truly sorry. As soon as I realized who you were we worked quickly to save your sight. You will be fine. Although that lump on the back of your head will take some time to heal I'm afraid."

"Not the first such blow, I assure you," D'Artagnan said gallantly. He took another sip of the hot whiskey. Some part of him was quite relieved to find the haunted house of the Red Witch was nothing more than an elaborate illusion, but still, he shuddered as he remembered his terror in the night. Maybe there was magic if it could induce fear like that in a man.

"D'Artagnan," Ninon said, interrupting his thoughts, "if you have come here to me then I must think you were not able to rescue the others."

"The others, you know where they are," D'Artagnan put down his mug and sat up straight, the blanket falling from his shoulders.

"Well yes, I sent you the message. But when you did not come two days ago I thought you had found them," Ninon asked.

"You wanted me to find you?" D'Artagnan said.

"Yes, of course, I did as soon as I realized that someone looking for the missing men was in the village." Ninon sighed, "But I cannot trust any of them. I wrote something that I hoped would lead you to follow the tale of the Red Witch without revealing myself."

"I tried to find you but I got lost," D'Artagnan said sheepishly, "I spent the night at the home of Etienne Robard and his daughter." Ninon blanched at the name, hand flying to her throat to clutch at the simple cross she wore. "Why, what is it? They were kind and helped me to find you."

"Kind!" Ninon let out a hollow laugh, "You went into the woods looking for evil and you did indeed find it. Etienne Robard practices dark arts. It is he that has them. D'Artagnan, Athos and the others are in very grave danger."

"But I was there, at the cottage, there was no one there," D'Artagnan was confused, "Just an ordinary homestead with a garden, a barn and an assortment of livestock. His dog saved my life, that is how I found him."

"Cottage? That fallen down shell of what was once a home houses nothing but that shriveled man and his poor abused daughter."

"Perrette? She was beautiful," D'Artagnan said, "She could not speak but she did not seem in distress other than her worry for her injured pet."

"She cannot speak," Ninon hissed, "because that devil cut out her tongue after she ran away from him. She stayed with me for a month, telling me of the dark spells he cast with blood, the transformations he practiced with the aid of Satan, the glamor he placed over the eyes of the innocent. He abducted her as she was trying to make her way to her mother's family and made sure no one would hear again of his dark rites."

"I thought you did not believe in witchcraft?" D'Artagnan said, eyes wide at her tale.

"While I may not be the witch that others think I am, I do believe that Satan exists and that his powers can be harnessed to promote evil in this world," Ninon paused, seeming unsure of what to say next. She picked through her words carefully "I practice science but to the uneducated, it is magic if I know that it is going to rain in two days or that mint in tea will put an uneasy stomach to rest. Science reveals things that once we thought were magic. I do not understand what it is that Robard does, but that which we call magic just means that we have not yet exposed it to the light of science. Someday we will find the answers to all magics in the universe, but that will not eliminate the evil that is born in the heart of men like Robard any more than it will take the godliness from your friend Aramis. The man is an aberration and he curses all he comes near."

"He said the same of you," D'Artagnan said, "and the cottage I stayed in was warm and welcoming. I think you are mistaken."

"Am I then? You know me D'Artagnan, you know me for no witch," Ninon stood, pressing her hands to the table, "Hear me when I say the others will die tonight, under the glow of a Hunter's Moon, and Etienne Robard will only grow the stronger for it. He has taken your friends and placed a glamor upon you so that you could not see them, but trust me they are there." Ninon reached into her bodice and pulled out a long chain with a cross on the end. "I found this near his home, pinned to a tree, the skulls of small animals littered below it - signs of a ritual that I have seen before. A transformation and a binding. They are there and they are helpless. You decide who the witch is D'Artagnan. You hold their fate in your hands now."

D'Artagnan's head was swimming. None of what Ninon had said made any sense. He had been there, dined with them, slept under their roof, felt no signs of evil or fear. Saw no signs of his friends. Yet here was this learned woman who had risked everything to save young women from a cruel life, who had become beloved of Athos and in turn owed him her life, telling him not to trust his own eyes. And in her hands, Aramis's crucifix glinted in the firelight, irrefutable proof that something dark had befallen his friends here in these woods.

 **Chapter 4**

The full moon was up as D'Artagnan worked his way along a deer track that led through the dark forest toward where Ninon said he would find the cottage, or what remained of it. She had sworn it was a dilapidated ruin and D'Artagnan had ceased arguing with her. He was full of doubts but with no other leads and Ninon's warning of dire consequences should he not rescue them before the full moon set on the horizon, D'Artagnan he knew it was better to try.

The track brought him to the back of the property, and D'Artagnan could make out the shadows of a large structure, most likely the barn. He had not ventured inside when he was here last and knew that if the others were being held that was the most logical place to look.

From what he could see, the back of the barn was in far worse repair than the front had been. The boards were old and knotted, and holes were haphazardly patched with crisscrossed boards. Some were missing altogether. It did not take much for D'Artagnan to widen one of the openings and slip inside.

The absence of the sighs and wuffles of sleeping livestock or the stamp of restless hooves rustling the hay alerted D'Artagnan that something was grossly wrong in the barn. There was a musty smell of mold and stale air that said the place had long been in disuse. D'Artagnan wondered that his entrance hadn't disturbed the dogs. The silence was eerie.

The barn was a run-down hulk of a building. The hayloft had collapsed, support columns were leaning at odd angles and D'Artagnan could see the moon through the gaping holes in the roof. This was not the barn he had seen the day before. If Ninon had been right about the buildings, then he was sure she was right about his friends. He scanned the barn looking for signs of where they might be hidden

They lay curled side by side in a bed of moldy hay and rotting leaves, the silvery moonlight outlining their naked bodies with an unearthly blue glow. Porthos was curled on his right side, Athos on his left, and their backs pressed together for warmth or perhaps comfort. They were so still they might be carved of alabaster and ebony. It was unnatural - only the dead slept like this.

D'Artagnan fumbled in the pouch at his side to find his flint and striker. He freed the storm lamp from his small pack and set a tiny flame glowing. The punctured tin sides let out only a small bit of light but in the dark barn, it was effective. D'Artagnan moved closer, stopping at the feet of the two men and raised the lantern afraid that he was too late. The warm light washed over their bodies, showing cuts, scrapes, and bruises on every limb. Athos was so pale he might have been a spirit himself tethered to this world by only the earthy presence of Porthos. That they were not alone brought some strange comfort to D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan shifted to kneel before Athos, pulling off his glove with his teeth. With a cautious hand, he reached to smooth the hair from Athos's face.

D'Artagnan sighed in relief as his trembling hand met with warm skin. Warm and damp where it should be cold. Athos had a fever. This was not good but at least he was alive. D'Artagnan gently tapped Athos's cheek in an attempt to rouse him but there was no response. However, Porthos sighed and moaned and D'Artagnan saw the muscles ripple along his back as he burrowed a little closer to Athos. D'Artagnan took up the lantern and moved to Porthos's side, placing a hand on the big man's shoulder and gently shaking him.

"Porthos," D'Artagnan whispered urgently, "Porthos, wake up." The fighter's eyes fluttered beneath his lids and let out a small sigh but seemed to settle back into the deep sleep in which D'Artagnan had found him.

"Porthos, wake up!" D'Artagnan urged again. He gripped Porthos by the shoulders and gave him a shake, "Porthos! You are in danger. You must wake up." He gently shook the large man again and was rewarded when Porthos let out a gasp and opened his eyes, pushing himself to sit bolt upright in the hay. He looked confused and uncertain as if he had just woken abruptly from a nightmare. His eyes wandered in anxiety until they settled on D'Artagnan.

"Where am I?" Porthos asked breathlessly. D'Artagnan could see the panic rising in his eyes.

"In a barn on Etienne Robard's farm," D'Artagnan said, "What do you remember."

Porthos shook his head, uncertainty descending over his face, "I don't know. Dreams. I was running. I had to protect Athos. I had to stay. I . . ." Porthos broke off, looking curiously at D'Artagnan, "You. In the woods. I killed it."

"Killed it?" D'Artagnan could barely speak.

"In the woods," Porthos replied, "In the woods I killed it. I killed the boar."

A chill ran down D'Artagnan's spine. How could Porthos know? How could he have dreamed that? He remembered Ninon's words - a spell of transformation and binding. D'Artagnan's heart began to race but he took a deep breath. His fear would not help them now. Whether the very devil himself had his friends in his grip D'Artagnan would not be deterred. He calmed down. Head over heart. Reason over fear. They had to leave this place. They had to leave now.

"Are you alright?" D'Artagnan asked, hand shifting to Porthos's shoulder, "Are you injured?"

The big man shook his head, "No, no I don't think so. Stiff and cold. Bruises. I feel . . . foggy. Almost like a hangover."

"Athos is beside you. He is fevered but I have not been able to rouse him yet," D'Artagnan said, giving a nod toward where Athos was still curled on his side, unmoving and unaware. Porthos shifted to find his friend beside him, placing a hand on the swordsman's shoulder.

"Athos, wake up," Porthos said, giving his friend a gentle shake, "Athos," Porthos glanced back to D'Artagnan, "He was wounded. I stayed," he said, his words cryptic.

D'Artagnan shifted around to Athos's other side again, gently rolling the man onto his back. Athos's right arm was across his chest, bandaged with little more than a dirty, bloody rag. And on his neck, an iron collar tethered to a short chain. It took longer than with Porthos but with both of them coaxing him Athos, like Porthos, sap up with a gasp.

"D'Artagnan," Athos looked at him in confusion and fear.

"It's alright, we're here," D'Artagnan assured him, putting a hand to the back of the swordsman's neck while Porthos steadied him with a hand to his shoulder.

"What happened?" Athos asked, wincing as he moved his arm.

"Not sure, but you are being held prisoner by a madman," D'Artagnan offered, "We need to get you patched up and then we need to get out." D'Artagnan pulled off his small satchel and produced a leather case which he unrolled on the ground. A small suturing kit and medicines were tucked into the neat loops. He pulled some bandages from the bag as well. "No time to tend this properly, but I can rebandage it. Porthos," D'Artagnan said, handing him another small leather case, "Get that collar off of him." Athos looked startled and raised his good arm to find the iron band around his neck. D'Artagnan felt him tense under his grip.

"I was chained here . . . " Athos said trailing off and looking at Porthos, "You stayed."

"I stayed," Porthos replied, unrolling the leather kit and choosing one of the lockpicks. "Tilt your head. Let me get at this." D'Artagnan was relieved that Porthos was beginning to sound more normal. He got to work on re-bandaging the wound, rubbing some slave into the angry cut that was clearly festering. It explained Athos's fever and the glassy look that still covered his eyes. The collar fell away with a loud click just as D'Artagnan finished tying off the last of the linen strips.

"Where's Aramis?" Porthos asked as he wrapped up the lockpicks. D'Artagnan stood and raised the lantern, searching more of the barn.

"Not here," D'Artagnan said, "but at least I found these." D'Artagnan held up a shirt and Porthos's doublet. "It looks like your clothes are all here, Aramis's too, stuffed in the old grain bin, although Athos's shirt is nearly rags."

"He can wear mine," Porthos said as he guided a still dazed Athos forward. D'Artagnan helped him get into his breeches and then slipped Porthos's voluminous shirt over his head. D'Artagnan took the flask from his belt and offered it to Athos. He hoped the strong spirits Ninon had given him would prove restorative to Athos. As he helped the man into his boots, Athos did seem steadier and had the wherewithal to look further into the bin.

"No weapons," Athos said.

"Well I've got this," Porthos said, pointing to a row of rusted and dull farm instruments hanging from the side of the barn. He took up a large axe, testing the balance in his hands.

"How come Aramis isn't with us?" Porthos said, "I don't like this."

"I was here yesterday, the barn was the only place I didn't go," D'Artagnan said. "I thought I'd find you all here."

Athos gave a dark smirk, "Aramis will turn up, he always does."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he gasped, the others looking at him in concern, "He always turns up. Like a cat in a thunderstorm, he always turns up . . ." D'Artagnan trailed off, moving quickly to take up his satchel. He took his main gauche from his back and handed it to Athos, "I know where he is. He's injured and we are running out time."

D'Artagnan caught the confused glance that Athos and Porthos shared between them, but to their credit, they followed him to the barn door. D'Artagnan pushed it open slowly and they moved single file into the yard. Even though D'Artagnan had known what he would find, it was still terrible to see it.

The livestock cage was still in the grass near what was left of the deteriorating well but where it had been of ample size for the injured cat, it was a cruel torture to find a grown man forced inside it

"Aramis," D'Artagnan breathed at the shocking sight. Then they were all three running into the yard, Porthos and D'Artagnan dropping to their knees by either side of the cage while Athos stood over them, dagger held in warning to anyone who might approach.

The marksman too was naked and curled on his side, head pressed into his knees. The hip they could see was purple and black with bruising, his back pressed painfully into the bars of the far too small cage. It must be agony for the marksman to be forced into that position in the cramped space, but he too seemed caught in that unnatural stillness that had possessed Athos and Porthos earlier.

"Aramis," Porthos was whispering, gently pressing his fingers along Aramis's back to rouse him. "He's cold as ice," Porthos said, looking up worriedly at D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan shifted and caught up one of Aramis's hand which he had somehow managed to shove between a space in the bars. It was like holding the hand of a marble statue, but there, beneath his fingers, he felt Aramis's lifeblood still moving in his body.

"He lives," D'Artagnan said with relief. He managed to slip his hand into the cage, and stroke Aramis's head much like he had the cat the night before. His eyes welled up thinking he had agreed with the farmer that putting the cat out of its misery was the best course of action. "We need to get him out of this," he said, fighting the lump in his throat.

"Even if I pick the lock, door's too small," Porthos said, "Who would do this to a man?"

"Break it," Athos voice was tight and cold above them, "Use the axe."

"But if I miss a stroke . . ." Porthos trailed off.

"You won't," Athos said, "Just do it." Porthos gave a determined nod and rose, walking around the cage and pulling on the sides to test its sturdiness. He chose a spot near Aramis' feet where the wood already seemed to be giving way. D'Artagnan kept a comforting hand curled in the marksman's hair hoping that even in this unnatural sleep he could feel he was not alone.

Porthos let the axe fall with a tremendous blow but while the dull blade bit into the wood, it stuck there. Porthos struggled to work it loose, then took another strike. The frame of the cage shook but continued to hold. With the third blow, Aramis let out a pained gasp just as the other two had when they had awoken.

"Aramis, wake up," D'Artagnan encouraged, gently ruffling at the back of his head, "Come on, wake up." Aramis moaned and rolled his head slightly against D'Artagnan's hand as Porthos delivered another blow to the cage. The marksman continued to rouse and then suddenly his eyes shot open as he let out a mournful inhuman moan. D'Artagnan gasped, instead of dark brown, the eyes looking back at him glowed yellow and green - the eyes of a cat. Then Aramis sighed again, his eyes rolling back as he slipped again into unconsciousness. D'Artagnan felt his hands trembling at the unnatural sight but before he could say anything to the others, a strong and foul wind rose up around them.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried and the Gascon rose, drawing his rapier as he turned to face the enemy. Etienne Robard stood at the doorway to the broken down cottage, looking as if he had aged decades in the day that had passed. His spare and shriveled frame was draped in the ragged shreds of what looked like the clothes he had been wearing. Behind him another figure huddled in a ruined dress, long stringy hair hiding her face but D'Artagnan could only assume it was Perrette. Robard raised his hands, shouting unintelligible words into the rising swirling winds.

"Keep going!" D'Artagnan called to Porthos as he and Athos advanced toward Robard. D'Artagnan had no idea what was happening but remembered Ninon's words about magic and science. Whatever this was, he did not need to understand it to know that the man before him was pure evil.

"Robard, stop this!" D'Artagnan yelled, "You will not have him!"

Athos and D'Artagnan tried to move forward but the wind was getting too strong to fight. Behind him D'Artagnan heard the snap and splintering of wood, hoping it meant that Porthos had finally broken through the cage that was holding Aramis. Robard raised his hands again and brought down his foot with a stamp. With an impossibly loud bang a wall of air as strong as a wave emanated from Robard, slamming into the Musketeers and flattening them to the ground as the remains of the cottage shook and crumbled behind him. Pinned to the earth, none of them could move as Robard approached Aramis, still huddled and unmoving on the ground amidst the wreckage of the cage. Robard knelt before Aramis, pushing the musketeer onto his back. He placed one hand on his chest and in the other raised a shining dagger above his head.

"No!" D'Artagnan called out, "Don't touch him!"

Robard laughed, "And you will do what? His blood will keep me strong until the next full moon. His flesh will feed me until I choose the next one of you to slaughter."

"No!" Athos cried out as Porthos roared a brutal and primitive cry. D'Artagnan struggled to move, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes remained fixed on the dagger.

A cry like a wounded animal tore his attention and a flurry of hair and rags hurled itself at Robard. He cried out in agony as he fell to the ground, Porthos's axe embedded between his shoulders. Then Perrette was on top of him, hands gripping his throat as she keened and screamed. It was over quickly. The old man no match for his wild daughter suddenly falling limp as she choked the last of the life from him. The wind fell away instantly and the Musketeers were released from the unnatural hold that had been placed upon them.

They scrambled to their feet, Porthos and Athos moving to Aramis's side, while D'Artagnan moved Perrette, now quietly sobbing, off the corpse of her father. She grunted and pulled herself away from his touch, flinging herself toward Aramis and stroking her hands through his hair. Athos and Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, confusion playing on their faces.

"She is very protective of her cat," D'Artagnan said with a smile, kneeling down to take up Aramis's hand, "as we all are it seems."

"What?" Athos asked absently as he spread Aramis's long coat over his shivering body.

"It's a long story, one I'm not even sure I believe," D'Artagnan said, shrugging out of his own doublet to place it under Aramis's head "But let's get out of here. There should be some blankets or something in the house," he said to Porthos. "We can make a litter." The big man gave a nod and made his way into the wreckage to search.

"How did you know how to find us?" Athos asked.

"That is another long story," D'Artagnan said with a smile, "But let's just say we owe our lives to the Red Witch of Chamonix."

\- fin -


End file.
